


a work in progress

by Miracule



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Figuring Things Out, Gen, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 02:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12596508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: Tomás is a good priest, and parishioners feel comfortable with him. But so did Marcus—and he fancied a bit of company—so here they are.





	a work in progress

**Author's Note:**

> A short coda to 2.03 (Unclean). I thought about some things and wrote a thing. There is implied sexual harassment of a minor (in flashback form).

“Are you dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Try not to move, all right?” 

That does it. Tomás turns to glare at him. “Well, you will have to hold me back.”

Is that supposed to be a joke?

“Don’t be smart,” Marcus tells him, more relieved than he would care to admit. “You’re lucky, you know.”

Minor head wounds bleed _a lot_. Marcus knows this, and he knows it from personal experience. Once, at St. Sebastian, he tried to escape a handsy older boy by ducking under a tall cupboard in the kitchen. He banged his head but ignored it, too frightened to care. About a minute passed before the boy spotted him and tried to pull him out, only to fall back in surprise. Marcus didn’t understand why the boy recoiled until he wiped the blood away from his face, thinking it was sweat.

Still, despite his initial conclusion that Tomás is probably just concussed, Marcus is worried.

When the same police officer who took their names asks him to move aside, Marcus is glad to do so. The sooner Tomás gets looked at, the better.

She pulls a small flashlight from her utility belt. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit with a hammer.” Tomás cracks the tiniest little smile.

The nerve of him, to joke at a moment like this. Lorraine must have really scrambled his brains. Still, better this than the Ortega-brand self-loathing. Tomás may not have a sense of humor, but he’s got self-flagellation down to an art form. It's really quite impressive. 

“I’m sorry, Father,” she tells him gently. “Now follow my finger with your eyes. Don’t move your head, please...”

“Sorry,” mutters Tomás, “it’s hard to see. It's in my eyes, I mean.”

Marcus steals another glance at him and winces. It _is_ a lot of blood.

“Okay. The paramedics are gonna take a look at you and get you cleaned up, all right? We’re also going to need statements from the both of you. Depending on how—?”

“Tomás.” 

“Depending on how Tomás is doing, we could do that sooner rather than later.”

Marcus nods; tries to look properly anxious, like somebody who’s never thrown a punch in his life. “Of course, thank you. We only want to help.”

“Also... you’ll need to decide if you want to press charges.” 

A moment of silence. “If it’ll keep her away from the girl,” says Tomás.

Marcus nods in agreement. For once, they’re on the same page.

 

 

The paramedics feel confident that Tomás isn’t in any significant danger, but they recommend a neurological workup at a nearby hospital. Tomás isn’t thrilled about that, but Marcus won’t take no for an answer. It’s only ten minutes away. They’re going. Statements can wait until tomorrow.

By the time they roll into the emergency department, poor Tomás looks grim. He’s certainly been attracting a few concerned looks, and for once Marcus doesn’t envy him that collar. If Tomás were a regular bloke, it’d be a bit understandable to come into a hospital looking like shit. Regular blokes have accidents at work and get into fights with each other.

Tomás looks like a character out of a telenovela.

Marcus leans over to tell him that—anything to pass the time, really—and Tomás makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

But Marcus regrets using that quip so early in the evening. A few hours later, Tomás is barely there. He’s been stonily silent since they gave Rose their contact information at Harper’s insistence. She wants to see Marcus again before he “leaves forever.” He’s certainly happy to oblige, although Tomás is more than a bit reluctant to stick around.

“I do not think she wants to see me again,” he tells Marcus as they collect a parking token from the front desk.

Marcus pulls a face. “She likes you,” he insists, “but she would like you better if you smiled every once in a while.”

Tomás looks at the floor, and Marcus’s heart sinks.

Marcus understands pain. He lives with it every day of his life—from the stiffness of aging joints to the voice inside his head that reminds him that he’s a fucking failure and not to forget it _._ Tomás shouldn’t be getting accustomed to the latter. It doesn’t become him.

There are days when Marcus wonders if he should have insisted that Tomás remain in Chicago. _Stay with your sister, be a good uncle_ and all that. Tomás is a good priest, and parishioners feel comfortable with him. But so did Marcus—and he fancied a bit of company—so here they are.

Tomás is out the door before Marcus is done thanking the girls at the front desk.

“You took the painkillers, right?” Marcus calls after him. Tomás shakes the bottle in response.

Outside, the air retains a little of the day’s warmth, but it’s gotten considerably cooler since they arrived. Tomás is shivering under his jacket.

“You should buy something warmer,” says Marcus, hurrying to unlock the car. 

“It’s not bad. I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, whatever. Are you hungry? We can stop before we find a place to stay.”

Tomás eases gingerly into the front seat. “I already ate,” he says, referring to four or five chips he managed to swallow before handing the rest of the bag to Marcus.

“Want me to make you something? We’ll find someplace with a kitchen.”

“No thanks.”

Marcus isn’t really in the mood for this dance. “All right.” He turns the key in the ignition. “I’ll get you something for later.”

Tomás angles himself toward the window and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t feel that great. I just want to sleep.”

Well, what can he say to that?

“Rose gave me a place. Can you look it up? I’ll drop you off.”

 

 

Usually, once they pick a hotel, they play a little game. If they can get a glimpse of the receptionist through the front door, they try to guess whether it’d be best for Marcus to play an English actor or for Tomás to go in as a Mexican priest (a big stretch of the imagination there). Tomás always volunteers him for the older women. _Go on, pretend you’ve been on_ _Midsomer Murders!_ Little shit. 

This time, Marcus doesn’t think of it. Tomás fell asleep maybe fifteen minutes ago and hasn’t woken up since. Reluctantly, much like a new parent, Marcus leaves him in the car.

Tomás is still properly out when Marcus returns. He’s breathing slowly and evenly and Marcus hates to wake him, but he’s not about to leave him outside for the night.

“Hey,” Marcus reaches out and tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. Tomás startles awake.

“I’m sorry, mate. Come on.”

Tomás looks around, squinting through the gathering dark. “Oh. Did you eat?”

“No. Can you manage?”

Tomás measures the distance to the ground. “Yeah,” he decides. He slides out of the seat and Marcus can’t help but position a hand near his elbow, just in case. But Tomás is steady enough on his own. If anything, he seems a bit more comfortable on his feet. When Marcus asks him about his head, he shrugs and says that it doesn’t hurt as much as before.

Inside, the first thing Tomás wants to do is shower. “Is that okay with you?” he asks.

Marcus is always tickled when Tomás checks if he needs to use the bathroom first. Nobody’s ever really bothered to do that before. In fact, he's been bounced to the back of the line more times than he can count. 

“It’s all yours. I might go and look for something to eat.” 

Tomás waves him away. “Choose for me.”

 _Good lad_. “Will do.”

 

 

All of these American shopping centers look exactly the same. They’ve all got a Chinese restaurant, a pizza place, a liquor store, and somewhere that sells cheap clothing. This one’s also got a supermarket. Marcus toys with the idea of going into the frozen food aisle to buy Tomás some packaged Tex-Mex abomination, but eventually decides that the minimal payoff of teasing him wouldn’t be worth the effort.

He buys a few slices of pizza and a grilled chicken salad. He isn’t sure which Tomás is in the mood for, so he figures they’ll split both.

But Tomás appears to have other ideas.

Marcus opens the door to their suite and finds him curled on the couch, only partly dressed—missing a shirt—and fast asleep. He’s raised the temperature as well, poor thing, and not just by a little bit. “What _have_ you done to the thermostat?” Marcus chides under his breath. “Missing Mexico?”

The television is on but it’s set to the guide, which scrolls hypnotically. Marcus wonders if Tomás had actually meant to watch something or just wanted it on. 

Marcus takes his pizza to the table and puts the rest of the food in the fridge. Tomás has left his painkillers on the counter and an empty glass in the sink. Marcus is impressed. It’s a sign of... something. Some sort of process of self-care.

He changes his mind and takes his pizza to the couch. He sits on the arm and takes a good, long look at Tomás. The man looks like a cherub, to be honest. It’s amazing that the same person so frequently boils Marcus’s blood. Still, it’s difficult to imagine being on the road without him. Marcus’s affection for Tomás is verging on the ridiculous, and it’s both comforting and frightening at the same time. He wonders if this is how parents are supposed to feel about their children. 

Does that make Tomás more of a liability than an asset? Probably. Still, Marcus feels badly about implying that their partnership was a mistake, even if— _frankly_ —it was. But he shouldn't have said it out loud.

Tomás shifts positions slightly and sighs.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Tomás.”

“Hm.”

“You all right?”

“Fine. You got back.”

“Yep, I’m back.”

“What did you buy?”

“Pizza.”

“What kind?”

“Taco salad.”

Tomás wrinkles his nose. “You did not.”

“Yeah, with the sour cream and the cheddar and everything. You like that, right?”

Tomás narrows his eyes, but Marcus spies the little smile trying to break through.

That's progress, isn't it? 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had a heck of a time writing this! I found their relationship particularly challenging to capture and had to infer a lot. Would love to hear different takes/be dragged in the comments.


End file.
